


Mise en Place

by maisoncoeur



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-06-07 11:43:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6802384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maisoncoeur/pseuds/maisoncoeur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after the bakery fire that killed his entire family, Peeta returns home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first story, so I hope you like it! I anticipate about ten chapters - stay tuned!

He sits at the kitchen island, his crutches leaning precariously against the wooden surface. The only light comes from the bulb in the ceiling above him. He’s still wearing the hospital bracelet, and if he inhales sharply he can still smell the place on him, pungent with disinfectant and the metallic tang of blood. The bitter scents of ash and smoke seem to weigh heavily on his lungs, although he tells himself it’s not real. He feels unsteady in the wicker chair, his balance uprooted by the fresh absence of a limb. The ache in the leg that no longer exists is a constant pulsating throb, a phantom pain he is sure will never fully leave him. 

 

But he barely feels anything at all. 

 

His hands surprise him in their constant steadiness. He carefully rolls a dozen flowers out of strips of white marzipan, pinching the bottoms and pulling open the petals. With a small paintbrush, he gives life to each one, coloring them into existence. He uses a paring knife to cut small leaves that he paints and binds to the flowers with dabs of water as glue. He inserts a tip into a small piping bag, methodically winds on the coupler, and fills the bag with white frosting. He pipes delicate swirls and dots onto the cake with an easy sweep of his wrist. 

 

It’s as if his hands belong to someone else. As if in the absence of a leg he also lost control of his other limbs, operating as they are now on autopilot, relying on memories so ingrained in him that he can’t remember ever learning how. He sets the piping bag down and turns to carefully gather up a flower by his fingertips to set on the cake.

 

But the act of turning to the side is the final tipping point in his efforts to stay balanced. As he falls from the chair, his first thought is of his mother, and the flower in his hand, and what she’ll do to him if he ruins it. It’s only in the aftermath of the crash to the floor, when he feels the jolt of pain that shoots up his side, when he sees the white bandage that still covers his stump, that he remembers. He laughs once, a rasping sound that quickly turns to coughing. He wonders if he’ll ever be rid of the feeling of smoke in his lungs, or if his insides have turned to ash in a permanent memorial of all those he’s lost. 

 

The flower in his hand is unmarked, still perfect, beautifully painted so as to reflect the light no matter which way it’s turned. He stares at it for a moment before he crushes it tightly in his fist, the marzipan turning unsatisfyingly soft and pliable without resisting, and it’s only then -- as he squeezes the piece of dough as hard as he can, his knuckles turning white from the effort, lying on his side on the wide wood plank floor feeling the cold weight of a limb that’s no longer there – that he finally, finally begins to weep.


	2. Chapter 2

He watches the bus pull away from the small clapboard station, its metal body shimmering past him in the bright sunlight. What little possessions he owns are sitting neatly in the green duffle bag by his side. He closes his eyes and inhales. The tang of the sea melts into the sweet pine of the forest and he imagines the ash of his lungs disintegrating up and out of his body, floating on the breeze through the town, away from him, settling back into the hollow space where his family once existed. His stump throbs with a recollection that isn’t his, the cool titanium of the prosthetic doing little to soothe what tender flesh remains. 

 

He opens his eyes and thinks of her, the white of the sun rendering him temporarily blind. Even now, he carries the memory of her in his bones, the precious few moments he’s had with her on a permanent loop in his head. A pathetic infatuation he still can’t let go of, no matter how hard he tries. In moments of desperation, he hates himself for his inability to uproot her from the landscape of his heart, but even at the very dark center of his weakness, he is thankful for the way she continues to tie him to this world.

 

The heat of the day bears down upon his exposed neck, and he tugs gently at his blond curls. He can’t help wondering if she’s here, if she thinks of him at all, if she still loves the cheese buns he used to make. He feels a pressure on his heart that seems to hold him where he stands. The coughing begins soon after. The weight of his life, the enormity of his loss, closes in around him and he fights to stay present. He grips the worn canvas handle of his duffle bag tightly in one calloused hand, rubbing his thumb in small circles, worrying away at the cloth. The touch of the fabric, his one constant these past three years in a blur of lookalike motels and train stations, centers him. He finds the salt in the air reassuring, feels it settling onto his skin, the wind soft against his face. 

 

Finally, he moves. His body projects the easy confidence he perfected as a small child, the language of his movements carefully constructed to protect swollen flesh and broken skin. After three years of practice, he can walk almost like he did before, the telltale soft _clink_ of the prosthetic as he bends his metal knee the only giveaway. He heads towards the beach, the blue of the ocean dazzling in the sunlight. Lowering himself gently onto the sand, he stretches out flat on his back, using his duffle bag as a pillow. He spreads his arms wide and digs his hands into the hot sand until he can feel the cool damp underneath. The heat of the sun relaxes his muscles. He breathes, replacing the smoke in his body with the salt of the sea. The sky is a cloudless deep blue, the sun a white circle overhead, forcing his eyes to close halfway. For the first time in years, his fingers itch to hold a paintbrush, to document, to make tangible the calm of the empty beach, the gentle roar of the waves, the steady beat of his heart. 

 

He doesn’t know how long he lies like this, soothed by the rhythmic pulse of the ocean. He’s not used to losing track of time and the sensation feels unnatural. His days are usually filled with nothing but time, the ticking of his watch a mocking reminder of the empty years he’s aimlessly forced himself through. He rises clumsily, leaning on the duffle bag as he hoists himself back up and carefully brushes the sand from his clothes. The heat of the day is fading as the sun moves closer to the horizon. He turns his back on the sea and trudges through the sand up to the gravel road. His heart starts to pound faster and faster as he makes his way towards town, and although he knows there won’t be anything left, nothing to make real what he knows happened, he can’t help but feel afraid. The ash of his lungs is heavier now, weighing him down with each step, filling the crevices of his body with smoke. The coughing returns, louder than before. He pushes himself forward, stumbling now in his hurry to reach the place where the bakery once stood, to get this over with. 

 

The square plot of land that housed his family is now a green meadow flush with dandelions, stretching back to the woods behind the gravel road. He doesn’t know what to make of this rebirth. He knew the bakery would be gone, but he still expected a piece of charred wood or twisted metal to remain, to mark the spot where his family turned to ash. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine the screams that split that dark night, the flames climbing the building, trapping the four people inside, the sirens in the distance arriving too late for the lives ending in a sudden burst of heat and smoke within that scorching prison. 

 

He can imagine it, but there is no memory to grasp. Because he wasn’t there. And that’s somehow almost worse that not having been a witness to this familial horror, because his mind creates new versions for him every day. The guilt of surviving, the talisman of his life, is a weight he doesn’t think will ever lift from his shoulders. He tells himself it’s not real. Again, his fingers twitch for the smooth wooden handle of his paintbrush, to create something from his continued existence other than an immovable burden. His bright blue eyes are dry, but his bones ache with exhaustion.

 

He bends and plucks four of the dandelions from their grass homes, tucking them gently into his pocket. Turning, he follows the gravel path that curves along the inlet until he reaches the other side of the beach. Square driftwood cottages dot the sand in soft pastels like life-size confections. There’s no movement within any of them, and he suddenly feels so small, more isolated than he has in his three years of wandering. He heads slowly towards the fourth cottage in the row, its paint peeling in places from the neglect of an absent owner. Dropping his bag on the small front porch, he overturns a large rock at the corner of the house and picks up the silver key.

 

Opening the blue front door, he pauses as the house reveals itself to him, eerily almost exactly the way he left it. The wooden floors, eggshell walls, the wide kitchen island and in the corner by the window seat, his art supplies, covered in a brown canvas tarp. The setting sun fills the cottage with an orange glow, as if to welcome him home. He turns to face the sea, his eye caught by a movement in the waves to his left. He squints, unsure. As the sun dips beneath the horizon, he realizes it’s a figure, swimming, long tan arms cutting through the water in a punishing rhythm, back and forth along a half-mile stretch of beach. His heart clenches in his chest. He inhales sharply, feeling the ash of his lungs dissipate suddenly into the salty air. 

 

It’s her.


	3. Chapter 3

He stands frozen on the front porch, his eyes following her progress as she slices neatly through the water. Everything is quiet: the roar of the ocean and the whistle of the wind have vanished from his eardrums, so that all he hears is the irregular fluttering of his heartbeat. A warmth at odds with the chill of the setting sun spreads through his body, emanating from his core out to the tips of his fingers, pushing the smoke that hugs his organs out through his pores. He feels more alive, more present, more like himself in this one moment than he has in three years. 

 

“ _Katniss_ ,” he whispers, the name pulled unbidden from his tongue. His voice is rough, cracking with such little use. Where once he could pull conversation from nothing, could diffuse the tension that filled his childhood home with the perfect joke or observation, he has now retreated into silence, finding reassurance in the absence of words. Now he feels the years of unspoken stories building in his chest, pushing at the back of his throat. He has an inexplicable desire to tell her everything he has held deep in his core, to unlock what he keeps hidden away, to vocalize himself to her. He lets the duffle bag fall from his hand and reaches to touch the dandelions in his pocket, gently rubbing a finger over the soft petals. His eyes still track her progress as she swims, undeterred by the quickly setting sun. 

 

There’s something different about her, a kind of desperation in her strokes that he doesn’t remember from before, as if at any moment she could turn and swim to the very ends of the earth. He takes a step off the porch, his eyes never leaving her movements. It’s rapidly becoming darker and the fireflies have begun to reveal themselves. He takes another step closer to the sea, to her. Hidden in his pocket, he feels the soft yellow of the dandelions pressing against his calloused hand. When only a sliver of sun remains, she swims ashore, squeezing the water out of her dark braid as she stands. She is ethereal, radiant, the fireflies twinkling around her, the lavender of early twilight reflecting off the water droplets on her olive skin. He’s forgotten how to breathe. 

 

As the sun finally slips behind the horizon, she suddenly turns and looks directly at him. Their eyes meet through the dusk and his heart wants to burst through his chest, to leave his broken body behind and present itself at her feet. She seems both harder and more fragile than he remembers, as if the mask of indifference she wears could crack without warning. As she stares at him, his mind reels backward to that first night in the hospital, his body aching, his thoughts confused by the pain and the fever, slipping in and out of consciousness. He remembers the feel of her hand in his, small and impossibly soft. The gentle way she brushed his curls off his forehead as his eyelids flickered closed. How she filled the room with the delicate scent of the forest. He felt inexplicably calm, reassured by her presence. For the first time in his life, he felt safe.

 

He blinks rapidly, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. _It’s not real_ , he tells himself. It can’t be. A fantasy invented out of pure loneliness and the nightmare of an infected leg, a hallucination forged out of desperation, his lonely heart aching for her touch. That’s all.

 

He has no idea how long he’s been standing here, holding her gaze on the darkening sand. He can just make out the corners of her mouth turning up in a small, sad smile that pulls at the very center of his core. He inhales deeply, filling his lungs with the sight of her. She stares at him a moment longer before turning away from him and walking down the beach towards the pine trees that he knows she lives near. He fights the impulse to cry out in protest. As she walks, he realizes she’s far thinner than the last time he saw her. He frowns. She’s too thin, too frail. He has the sudden urge to bake for her, to sit and watch her eat everything he produces, to fill her stomach the way she fills his heart. He imagines his countertop piled high with cheese buns, breads, cookies. He pictures the smile on her face.

 

The twilight is fading into evening now, her small frame vanishing into the inky darkness, the fireflies that continue to circle her the only evidence she was ever there. Slowly, the sounds of the earth return to him, the gentle murmur of low tide, the whisper of the breeze. He feels a heat that radiates throughout his body, his skin flushed from the encounter. He watches her until all that remains is the imprint of her figure on his eyelids. Finally, he turns and enters the house, tossing his duffle bag gently on the small white couch. He leaves the door open to the sea.

 

He pulls the thick canvas tarp off his art supplies and sets to work, reviving the paints that have dried out. He lines up his paintbrushes on the windowsill, soothed by the neat row he creates. He pulls a fresh canvas from the stack on the floor, selects a medium brush that instantly feels at home in his rough hand, mixes his palette, and paints her. Katniss, the first time he saw her in the schoolyard, her hair in two braids instead of one. Katniss in the rain outside the bakery, cold and shaking from hunger. Katniss perched high up in a tree, laughing. Katniss swimming, her body reflecting the last rays of sunlight. He paints throughout the night, canvas after canvas. He feels nothing but a sense of calm, a comforting relief he hasn’t felt in years. Even when he paints the side of the bakery, he finds he is able to push down his grief somewhat, that he can fight through the suffocating ash of his lungs to still feel the sea air drifting through the cottage. 

 

Just before dawn, he paints her as he remembers her from the fever dream of his hospital bed, darkness consuming the corners of the room, the only light surrounding her chair as she lightly touched his pale face. Closing his eyes, he can almost feel the brush of her fingertips against his skin.


	4. Chapter 4

The sun rises in a burst of pink and gold, flooding the cottage with light. He stands in the open doorway, letting the warmth rush over him, raising his palms to meet the soft heat of the day. The ocean is wilder this morning, salt spraying the air. The circles under his eyes are a deep purple and his eyelids feel heavy with the weight of his exhaustion, but he knows from experience that he will not be able to sleep. His dreams are always clouded with the fear of losing her, his treacherous unconscious placing her in one impossible situation after the next, and he refuses to watch her be taken from him today. 

 

The wind swirls the sky overhead, creating a dark mass that inches towards the beach, threatening the nascent sunlight. He stretches his arms overhead to grasp the top of the white doorframe and pulls his body up, bending his legs and crossing his ankles, flesh over metal. He rhythmically bends and straightens his arms, pulling his weight up and down, reveling in the burning in his shoulders, the ache in his fingertips. The pain helps him to stay present, focusing his mind on this one moment. He ignores the smoke that leeches from his bones, the ash that forms the shape of his heart. He drops his hands from the door and lands heavily on his feet. He eyes the darkening clouds warily.

 

He turns his back on the beach and walks deeper into the cottage. He stands for a moment at the kitchen island, pressing his palms flat on the wooden surface. His hands are flecked with paint, and he suddenly can’t stop staring at the reddish dots and streaks. In the bright morning light, they look like blood. Bile rises in his throat, acid burning his esophagus. The coughing returns, louder and more insistent. He crosses to the sink and wrenches open the tap, but no water rushes out of the faucet. He waits, but there’s nothing. He reaches for the light switch and flicks it several times, but there’s no electricity either. The silver moonlight must have been bright enough last night for him to paint by without realizing. 

 

His hands are shaking, the muscles taught with tension. He can’t stop staring at the veins popping out from his wrists. The red paint seems to be getting shinier, more insistent, spreading across his palms and dripping down his forearms. He can’t breathe. His lungs feel heavier in his chest, filling with ash, suffocating him. He moves toward the open door, to the sea beyond, but he only makes it three halting steps before his shaking limbs give out and he sinks to the floor. The cold metal of the prosthetic is banging against his stump as he trembles, grating the sore flesh, and he just manages to yank it off before the darkness clouds his eyes and he remembers no more.

*

He wakes to the sound of the rain tapping against the tin roof of the cottage. He lies curled on his side, his arms and legs pulled tightly into his chest. His muscles ache and he feels the dull pain deep into his bones. His cheeks are wet with tears he doesn’t remember shedding. He inhales slowly, feeling the air brush past the rawness of his throat. Carefully, he unfurls his limbs, his joints cracking with the release. He lies flat on the floor, breathing in and out. Gradually, he returns to himself.

 

The air feels lighter, the summer storm pushing out the humidity. The gentle patter of the rain relaxes him. Slowly, he sits up and reaches for the prosthetic. The flesh of his stump is red and sore and he massages it gently with his fingertips before reattaching the titanium limb. He can no longer see any traces of the paint that once stained his hands. He rises unsteadily to his feet and stumbles towards the door. Stepping off the porch, he stands on the damp sand and lets the cool rain erase the memory of his terror. The water runs down his body, tattooing his back in rivulets, absorbing into his skin and dissolving the smoke within. The tension in his muscles finally leaves him. He stands on the windy beach until his clothes are drenched and the cold ices his bones. 

 

Back in the warmth of the cottage, he pulls large white towels from the driftwood shelf in the bathroom and wraps them tightly around himself. He grabs his cell phone from the duffle bag and sits at the kitchen island, dialing the utility company. He ignores the note of surprise in the operator’s voice. It’s a small town. If they don’t already, they’ll all know soon enough that the last remaining Mellark has finally returned. His stomach surprises him with a quick pang of hunger. He can’t remember the last time he’s actually wanted to eat; he’s far more used to forcing something tasteless down his throat every few days when the dizziness gets to be too much. 

 

In the small white bedroom, he changes into a soft green pullover and jeans. Through the open window, the wind blows the gauzy curtains up and over him, the delicate fabric brushing against his skin, raising the golden hairs at the back of his neck. His hands are steady as he dresses, pulling on socks and sneakers, his fingers double-knotting his shoelaces with precision. Outside, the rain has tapered off, the clouds a light grey. He closes the door to the cottage and walks towards town.

 

The main street is nearly deserted. Despite all that’s happened this morning, it’s barely eight o’clock, and the storm has kept even the most dedicated joggers and dog walkers inside. He’s heading to the small market at the end of the street when the quiet of the early day is ripped apart, and she’s suddenly there, right in front of him, bursting from a store to his left as she chases a man in a brown delivery uniform from the entryway. She’s screaming, her voice cracking and the words unintelligible as she hurls boxes at the bewildered man, her face contorted with fury. One of the boxes splits as it hits the ground and dozens of perfect white roses spill out onto the sidewalk, their petals instantly muddied by the wet ground. She’s still screeching as she whirls to grab the broken box when her eyes meet his and the words die in her throat. As she stares at him, her silver eyes widening, her face seems to crumple inward and he realizes it’s not rage on her features but grief, a pure mirror of his own sadness reflected back at him, the weight of that intangible burden heavy on her small frame. She stands frozen, her chest heaving, staring at him as if she can see right through to his core. His heart aches for her.

 

She turns suddenly and crashes back through the doorway, her long braid whipping to the side as she slams the door and disappears into the back of the darkened store. The noise reverberates through the quiet street and he can still hear her voice in his eardrums, echoing throughout his body. 

 

He moves to the shocked deliveryman and pulls out his wallet. Taking the entire stack of neatly folded bills, he hands them to the man. 

 

“Is this enough?” he asks quietly, watching as the man eyes the thick fold. “Take them away, please. All of them.” 

 

He turns as a sudden movement within the dark store catches his eye, but he can’t see far enough in, just the outline of the dried herbs and plants that hang from the ceiling. He waits as the deliveryman gathers the boxes and bruised flowers from the ground and replaces them in the large truck, getting in without a backwards glance and hurriedly driving away. He stands a moment longer, rooted to the spot by the memory of her so near to him. He welcomes the new air in his lungs, feels the remnants of the rain on his damp skin. He reaches out a hand and presses his palm to the door of the shop, feeling the smooth wood under his fingers. He wants to take her sadness and envelop it in his own, peel her grief back from her heart and place it deep in the ashy remnants of his core.

*

The rain returns that night, cold and drizzling, as the sun begins to set. It doesn’t deter her. If anything, she seems more determined than ever, slicing through the water with desperate strokes, pulling her small body through the waves over and over again. He sits in the open doorway to the cottage, his back pressed against the doorframe, the wind lifting his hair gently off his forehead.

 

The last of the sunlight fades as the night takes control of the beach. There are no fireflies tonight, and the moon is faint in the sky. He can just make out her form emerging from the spray of the sea. She turns her back on the forest and walks delicately across the sand towards him. His heart pounds in his chest and the nerves of his fingers tingle against his skin. 

 

She stops right at the bottom of the front porch and looks up at him. He’s not quite sure if she’s real or not when she speaks, and he strains to catch her voice over the tumult of the sea and the roar of his beating heart.

 

“Peeta,” she says, her voice soft and lilting. 

 

“Katniss,” he whispers, his heart bursting from his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kind words + kudos. They are just the encouragement I needed to continue this story! Stay tuned :)


	5. Chapter 5

He can’t really see her, it’s getting so dark out now, but he can feel her presence so close to him, sense the warmth of her skin and the sharp cold of the sea that lingers. She calls silently to him, his own personal lighthouse in the raging storm of his heart. He can see the smallest droplets of water on her neck as she stands before him, raised goosebumps forming on her tanned skin. The salt of the ocean had twisted the dark braid that held her hair to one side, so that it seems coarser than usual.

 

Everything is quiet.

 

Now that she is in front of him, the esoteric sound of his name falling from her throat, his heart and his breathing have slowed to the point where he’s forgotten those two essential pieces of the contract he’d made with himself to continue living. _She’s so thin_ , he thinks suddenly. He realizes she is speaking to him again and he fights hard to return to the sound of her lilting voice. His hands tremble slightly as he looks up to meet her eyes, but he feels a new grounding within him, a strength that builds out from his ashy core and expands through his body, guiding him, telling him to let go, to trust in the instincts she pulls unbidden from his heart.

 

“Peeta,” she says again, her voice a question mark, the curves of which snap him back to the reality of her so very close to him. He meets her gaze with newfound steadiness and speaks, his voice hoarse yet firm:

 

“Don’t you ever worry about sharks when you’re out there doing all that swimming?” he asks her. She laughs, quickly and in surprise, the sound like an electric shock to his stunned heart.

 

“Sharks?” she repeats. It isn’t what either of them had expected him to say. He feels something loosening inside of him, the stopper he keeps firmly in his ashen center uncorking slightly.

 

“Yeah, you know, sharks,” he answers. “Don’t you worry about them? They’ve been known to venture up the coast. And you swim so far out, well, what if they decide you’re food?”

 

She laughs again, then cocks her head to the side. Her silver eyes pierce his, so bright as the beach grows even darker, her very presence so close to him lightening the air he breathes. He feels her gaze push straight through to his core. “What, are you worried for my safety out there or something?” she asks playfully.

 

Her meets her disbelieving look once more and feels it again, the unraveling of his tightly wound interior, threads that he’d worked so hard to keep secure coming rapidly loose, floating through his body out to meet her where she stands calmly on the damp sand. And before he can pull them back, before he can regain the control he prizes above all else in this new, lonely life, the word tumbles from his lips as he stares into her widening eyes: “Always.”

 

He inhales quickly, a sharp intake of salt and ash, stunned at the admission. She stares back at him, revealing nothing. _She always was so hard to read_ , he thinks ruefully. Her fingers pull at a loose thread on the beach towel she holds loosely in one hand. When she speaks, her voice is soft and cracked with emotion he can’t identify on her blank face.

 

“Where did you go?”

 

He pushes himself off the porch, rising quickly as his prosthetic resists, her words the final kindling in the ashen remains of his heart.

 

“Please,” he begs, with a sudden desperate sense of urgency. “Please, Katniss. Come inside.” And as she steps forward without hesitation, he wants nothing more than to pull her into his arms right then and hold her heart close to his. Instead, he meekly takes a step back to let her pass him on the porch, so near to him that he has to make an effort to keep his eyes open and focused as she walks delicately into the cottage, her thin frame illuminated by the soft glow of the lamp in the entryway.

 

He wonders again if this is real. He fears more than anything the moment he will wake alone in his bed if it is not.

 

Crossing the threshold into the small cottage, he leaves the door behind him open, pulling in the sea air. He takes a tentative step toward where she stands in the middle of his living room, hugging her beach towel to her chest as she slowly looks around. He tries to imagine the room from her view, the tidy row of colored sea glass on the windowsill, the smooth wood of the large kitchen island, the soft blue of the walls. Her eyes roam over the small square sketches he has hung over the white couch, three perfect sand dollars in a row, sharp black ink on rough homemade paper. She continues her silent assessment of his home while he stands, carefully observing her every movement. Her eyebrows rise ever so slightly at the dandelions in the small white cup near his neatly aligned paintbrushes, but her face remains in the cool, neutral mask she wears like armor.

 

He knows a moment before she does that his painting of her in his fever dream is clearly visible, propped against the wall in the corner. There is time, he knows he has a chance, he could move, quickly, cover the canvas with the tarp that hides the rest, but still he remains motionless. He feels eerily calm. _Let it happen_ , he thinks. _Let it out once and for all_. He is suddenly so tired of holding everything close to him, tainting his memories with the smoke he still carries like a weight across his back, pulling him down towards the heat of the earth where his family vanished from being.

 

When the painting finally catches her eye, it seems as if everything around him goes quiet, muted, so that all he hears is her breathing and their asynchronous heartbeats. She takes a step closer to the canvas, pauses, stretches out one delicate finger to press its tip to the curve of where her painted hand meets his cheek. He can almost feel it again, her gentle caress, the soft tenderness of her fingers against his cold, pale skin. He exhales slowly, returning to himself, feeling the need to explain.

 

“I – you know, I can’t –,” he starts, fumbles, starts again. “I can’t always tell what’s real from what’s not real, since, ah, since it happened. I have to paint it to find out.”

 

She turns slowly, her hand reluctantly leaving the painted canvas. Her eyes are glassy, and a certain heaviness has settled around her shoulders. The towel hangs limply from one hand, the oversize sweater she wears over her bathing suit damp with seawater. “And this?” she asks quietly, glancing back again towards the painting. “What did you decide? Real, or not real?”

 

A short, hollow laugh escapes him. “I – what do you mean? Of course it – it wouldn’t be – in the hospital –” he rambles incoherently, refusing to meet her eyes. He fixates on a fleck of white paint on the wooden floor, left from yesterday. He turns and grabs a sponge from the kitchen counter, bends down and scrubs hard at the floorboard. “I was – it was just a dream,” he continues, dragging the sponge back and forth over the floor. The paint remains stubbornly on the wood surface.  “A fever dream, from, you know,” he stops again, scrubbing incessantly at the floor, the muscles in his arm taught with tension, “I couldn’t — I wasn’t in _control_ , I was – goddammit!” he cries, frustrated, squeezing the sponge so hard the veins in his wrist pop. _Unraveling_ , he thinks. _I was already beginning to come undone._ He breathes rapidly, ignoring the metal protesting under his thigh as he continues to kneel awkwardly on the floor. He still won’t look up at her, though he feels her gaze on him, as intent and focused as a hunter tracking her prey. Heat flushes his neck slightly pink as he tries to calm his breathing. He drops the sponge in defeat, balls his hands into fists on his thighs.

 

“I didn’t go anywhere,” he says softly, finally answering her question from outside. “I left, I went up and down the coast, I never stopped moving, I couldn’t stop – but I didn’t _go_ anywhere. I couldn’t escape, it consumed me, no matter where I went I just couldn’t leave myself behind, I carried the reminder with me, on my body, everywhere I went I couldn’t forget, I was always choking on it, I couldn’t ever just _breathe_ –” His words come in gasps now as he angrily brushes away the moisture forming at the corners of his eyes. He finally looks up at her and she’s closer, far closer than he realized, she’s coming right to him, kneeling down right in front of his shaking frame. Her eyes are wide and shining, and she looks uncertain as she raises one small hand in front of her.

 

“Peeta,” she whispers, and it’s too much, the sound of his name in her mouth, her face just inches from his, every perfect freckle clearly outlined against her pale skin, the phantom leg that continues to ache against the floor -- he feels his heart splinter into a million tiny pieces as she extends her arm and – like a dream, like his dream -- mirrors his feverish painting of her, cupping her hand and sliding it against his cheek. The feeling of her skin against his electrifies every nerve in his body as his eyes involuntarily close and he leans into the sanctuary of her touch.        

 

He’s uncertain of the time that passes before he opens his eyes suddenly and looks at her. “Real,” he says, and he knows it with such certainty, he can feel it deep in his bones, the gentle pressure of her hand against his cheek his talisman. The corners of her lips pull up in the smallest of sad smiles, a beautiful, heartbreaking gift just for him. “It was real,” he repeats softly. She nods once, slowly, her eyes still piercing his. He reaches up, impulsively, and gently touches the end of her braid, his knuckle just grazing the skin of her collarbone. He wants to open this moment and seal himself inside, protect them both from his guilt and her sorrow, keep them safe within the confines of a memory. He feels her thumb trace a small pattern on his jaw, her touch coursing through his veins, calming him, at long last giving him the sense of peace he’s spent years trying to find.

 

“I’m so tired, Katniss,” he whispers, exhaustion clouding his muscles and slowing his thoughts, the ache of the morning’s episode still flowing through him. His eyes droop as he struggles to look at her. She moves slightly, using her free hand to pull something off the couch behind them. Gradually, she removes her other hand from under his chin, cupping the back of his neck as she lowers him to a pillow on the floor. He moves with her, unresisting, like an obedient child, as she murmurs something he doesn’t quite catch. He feels rather than sees the blanket that covers him, the sense of peace he feels in this moment overwhelming him. The last thing he remembers is the gentle touch of her fingers brushing back the curls from his forehead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience! I love reading your thoughts and reactions; you are deeply appreciated!


	6. Chapter 6

He spins long threads of sugar, delicate nests of golden strands, weaving the sticky mess into an intricate sphere. His hands move deftly, conducting a complicated pattern with his fingertips. With a sharp twist of the wrist, he breaks the line of sugar and gently moves the fragile nest to the top of the pure white cake. The midmorning light reflects brightly from the window to the metal sheet pan of cooled caramel patiently waiting next to him. Turning, he gently pries apart the caramel, pulling whimsical shards and triangles off the sheet. He places the pieces at angles against the sides of the cake, pressing the shards gently to adhere to the soft buttercream in contrasting shapes and lengths. He steps back to review his work, rotating the cake stand with a critical eye, carefully nudging stray strands of sugar back from where they’ve fallen off the spun nest. He likes the way the caramel shards tower over the surface of the cake at varying heights, pressing a fingertip to the top of one to feel the sharp point push back at the calloused pad. Taking another step back, he bumps gently against something solid and warm. A hand, heavy and dusted with flour, drops clumsily onto his shoulder.

 

“It’s a caramel forest!” exclaims a soft and deep voice.

 

He turns so fast he’s sure he’ll fall over, the prosthetic never reliable when his balance is tested. But he stays upright, and in the same moment as he meets the piercing blue eyes of his father behind him, he feels the solid ground beneath both of his feet, muscle and blood pressing assuredly into the earth. Stunned, he watches particles of flour sprinkle slowly down to the blue tiled floor, dusting his shoes. He wriggles his toes against the worn fabric of his socks at the same time as he understands the weight of the hand against his broad shoulder. He feels a deep and burning pain in his heart as he raises his head to meet the pair of blue eyes so identical to his own. The burning spreads from his center as he looks at his father before him, every detail so achingly familiar and yet deceptively foreign – the lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes, always giving him the appearance of having just told a joke to an unsuspecting audience; the slight curve of his back weighting him down to the world; the crumpled fold in his right ear where he’d caught it in a heavy oven door as a child, the most visible of a lifetime of wounds and bruises in a history doomed only to repeat itself.

 

Peeta burns for him, an electric current spreading through his veins as he struggles to inhale. The shock roots him to the spot. The corners of his vision start to cloud as he opens his mouth desperately to speak.

 

“Dad, I –” he begins, but he is too late, he’s already burning, and under the ever-watchful eye of his father -- the man who could always take one glance and just _know_ , no matter how well he hid it away -- he bursts into flames. Gold and red sparks reflect off the caramel behind him as fire climbs his aching body, and still his father watches him mournfully. He feels nothing but the roar of the flames, causing Peeta to clasp his shaking hands to his ears, staring pleadingly at the outline of the man in front of him, now all he can see in the growing smoke engulfing the bakery.

 

And yet, when finally, finally his father speaks, he can hear the voice so clearly inside his own head, the timbre reverberating out through his fiery core as the ash climbs his throat and his eyes are forced shut by the sting of the bright heat –

 

“Peeta. My boy. It would never have been your fault.”

 

And the room explodes into a million tiny shards of glass.

 

*

 

He wakes with a gasp, rapidly inhaling the cool sea air that fills the cottage. He is sitting straight up, beads of sweat prickling his spine as he trembles in the near-dawn light. He continues to breathe, expanding his lungs as widely as they can go, feeling his ribs press against his chest – all the while keeping his eyes firmly shut tight, the image of his father imprinted on the black of his eyelids. If he inhales deeply enough, he can just smell the flour and yeast of the bakery, feel the tackiness of the caramel under his fingernails. His shoulder seems heavy with the weight of a hand that was never there. His hands shake as he presses them gently against the cool wooden floorboards. _Not real_ , he thinks.

 

He remembers, then, her, so close to him. The way she pressed her fingertip so carefully to the canvas of his dreamscape painting. The braid that twisted against her damp collarbone. The gentle ache in his limbs and deep in his heart confirms the flashes of memory that return to him all at once. With great reluctance, he slowly opens his eyes. The image of his father hangs suspended in front of him, a temporary flame, until he can bare it no longer and blinks rapidly, erasing the ghost from view as he feels the vision settle deeper into the ash of his core. There’s a blanket crumpled by his side and he stretches slightly to rub the softness of its cream threads through his fingers. His elbow cracks loudly in the quiet of the lonely cottage as he brings the blanket up against his cheek, pressing the fabric gently against the line of his jaw. The tears, when they finally fall, burn his cheeks as they roll to meet the edge of the blanket. He grasps it tightly with both hands, pressing his mouth deeply into the fabric as his body shakes with the sobs of an immeasurable grief.

 

The sun begins to peer over the horizon as the deep blue of the sky recedes, but he shuts his eyes tightly against its light as he howls uncontrollably into the blanket, tears soaking his hands, tracing the lines of his palms with their salt. The minutes drag relentlessly on, carrying him up and away through his memory. The sun climbs higher into the morning sky, filling the lonely cottage with bright light as he slowly gains control of his breathing. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he collapses with his back against the side of the couch. He finds a dry corner of the blanket and presses it roughly against his puffy eyelids until the spots that swim before him could almost become the outline of his father. He removes the blanket in frustration, letting it drop to the floor.

 

Blinking slowly against the raw feeling in his eyes and throat, his head turns almost against his will towards the painting in the corner. The sunrise illuminates the gentle curve of her back and the way the loose strands of her hair fell softly from her braid in the frozen moment. He allows the image to calm his breathing. He remembers her more clearly now, the lilted sound of her voice, the nervous pull of her fingers at the threads of her pullover, the slight wrinkle in the center of her forehead when she frowned. His heartbeat slows as he gives himself over the memory of her so near to him, tempering his exhaustion. The shock of the realization that he painted something real is too much for him. There was refuge in his fantasy, in his uncertainty. Now, he doesn’t know what to think. He surprises himself with the intensity of his desire to see her again despite it all, his yearning for her touch igniting his very core. In a foggy corner of his mind, his father winks at him over the counter of the bakery. He shoves the blanket further away and makes to stand, but it’s then that he realizes that what remains of his leg is completely numb, and he can’t even feel the sharp cold of the prosthetic against his ragged thigh.

 

He curses once, his throat rough with ill use. Grinding his teeth and already dreading the inevitable, he unclips the prosthetic and, as delicately as he can, slides it off and away from the stump beneath. Everything remains the same for a brief, delicious pause, the space of one shaky inhale – before feeling and plain flood back into his stump, the color quickly moving from white to a deep, angry purple. He yelps in surprise as the intensity mounts, not knowing whether to massage the protesting flesh or to leave well enough alone. He chooses inaction as the pain builds; resting his head back against the leg of the couch above him, his eyes closing against the pain as it continues to deepen – and for one shock of a moment he can see the silver knife slashing through the air, feel the long blade hit the sinew and bone beneath as a million colors spin in a dizzying rainbow over his head and his screams tear at the freezing air – but he blinks rapidly and stares desperately at his clean, blood-free hands to prevent him from slipping back into the remnants of a buried trauma.

 

“Not real, not real, _not real_ ,” he mutters incessantly to himself over and over again, as if he could will the incantation into being. _Fight it_ , he thinks desperately. _Fight back for once_. He focuses on the glint of sunlight reflecting off the ocean waves outside his window.

 

“Blue,” he says roughly, feeling his heart pound rapidly in his chest, nearly choking on the ash of his filling lungs. _Don’t_ , he thinks.

 

“Blue,” he says again, staring at the sea. He shakily inhales. “Lavender. Cobalt. Hyacinth.” He exhales the air out his open mouth, his hands trembling. The stump throbs, matching his heartbeat. “Cerulean. Turquoise. Sapphire. Indigo.” As he speaks, he imagines each color swirling to the top of the ocean, the color wheel spinning and lighting up as he ticks off each shade of blue. His heart slows as his lungs expand to fill with air, the pain of his stump lessening slightly as it throbs against the palm of his hand.

 

 _Okay_ , he thinks. _Okay._ He twists awkwardly on the floor until he faces the couch, pulling himself upward against its arm. He stands a moment, adjusting to the imbalance. Carefully, he slides his hand up along the wall to the corner of the hallway. Slowly, he drags himself towards the wall until he can lean against it fully. He straightens his back, grimacing against the pain, and begins the arduous task before him. With every slow hop he makes, pain shoots back up his thigh as his nerves reawaken. Finally, he reaches the bedroom, grabbing the dresser and pushing himself hard backwards to fall onto the bed. His stump spasms with pain and he curses loudly as he reaches for the duffle bag on the pillow. Fumbling through it, he pulls out a bottle of long-expired painkillers, dumping two into his palm and popping them quickly into his mouth. He rummages around again until he hits the bottom of the canvas bag, pulling from its depths a smooth, wooden cane. He stares at it in disappointment, knowing it will have to do until the pain lessens and he can bare to reattach the prosthetic.

 

The day passes, slowly and without his encouragement. He feels trapped and restless within the confines of the cottage, but he doesn’t dare use the cane in the sand. He tries to content himself with the sound of the crashing waves carried through the open doorway by the breeze. He spends long stretches of time lying on the couch, flipping idly through old cookbooks, pausing occasionally to gently rub his fingertip against an old note or reminder his past self had scribbled in the margins. When the sun is already beginning its slow decent, and he can bare the monotony no longer, he begrudgingly hobbles to the kitchen island, slouching in a chair as he pulls canisters and jars tentatively towards him. His hands move of their own accord and he lets the memory ingrained safely inside him return. As the dough shapes before him, he feels a calmness he did not expect, engulfed in the scents of his former life. The bitter solitude of his existence without her near is a constant dull ache, outmatched only by the intensity of his pulsing stump and the vision of his father still floating before his eyes. He covers the dough lightly with a tea towel and sets it aside to rise. Drumming his fingers on the countertop, he casts an anxious glance around the room as the sun continues to descend. Without the visual distractions of flour and butter, the pain in his stump begins to return full force. He chances a glance down at it, just barely visible beneath his tan shorts. The edge of his thigh is still brightly colored and puffy. He hesitates, then reluctantly presses the back of his hand against the raw flesh as gently as he can. It’s hot to the touch. He curses softly under his breath. Shivering slightly as the heat of the day recedes, he carefully turns in his seat to face the open door out to the sea and the sunset now forming above the shimmering horizon. He leans forward to stare intently at the waves, but distance works against him and he can’t tell if she’s out there swimming or not. Folding his arms against his chest, he shivers again. He glances once at the dandelions sitting in the cup on the window ledge, then quickly looks away.

 

He turns back and lifts the corner of the tea towel to peer inside the bowl. The dough has barely risen an inch. He wonders if he’s losing track of time again, if the moments of his strange existence are piling up and slipping away before he can fully grasp them. Placing his hands flat against the countertop, he lowers his head to meet them, closes his eyes, and instantly falls into a dreamless sleep.

 

*

 

In no time at all, or perhaps a very long time later, his eyes open. Slowly he sits up, his spine unfurling as he stretches, wincing at the relentless thudding pulse against his thigh. Cautiously, he turns on the stool to face the room. A silent fork of lightening meeting the ocean’s surface reveals the now-closed front door, having slammed shut in the midsummer storm beginning to churn outside. His body stiff with sleep, he carefully slides off the stool and leans heavily on the cane as he hobbles to the bathroom. In the dull light of the mirror, his skin feels clammy and cold as he shivers barefoot on the tile floor. The pale face reflected back at him stares blankly ahead, the circles under his eyes a deeper purple than usual. He can’t remember what it feels like to not be tired.

 

The pain in his leg remains, beating incessantly against the scarred thigh. In desperation, he lowers himself abruptly onto the lid of the toilet seat and flings the shower on, yanking the shower head down from its perch and blasting his leg with the icy cold water. It helps, he thinks, unsure. There’s a slight ringing in his ears and he feels lightheaded, weightless. He uses his other hand to grab another expired pill bottle off the shelf above him. Flicking the top off, he hesitates, then pours the five remaining pills directly into his mouth. He feels reckless and alone.

 

He worries he will start unraveling, the threads of his body dissolving in the humid air as he turns to ash. He can’t remember having eaten today. Or is it already tomorrow? He remembers again with sudden clarity the realization that she did visit him in the hospital three years ago, that his vision of her is more truth than desperate fiction. He turns the information over in his clouded mind, uncertain about what that means, what he means to her. If she would let him, he would offer himself up to her gladly, use his grief as a shield against the sadness that seems to engulf her. He has no idea if she would accept him, if the half life he lives, the fragile shell of who he once was, could ever be enough.

 

The ringing in his ears grows louder. He glances down, momentarily surprised to see the water streaming from the handle, pooling around the bath mat. He shuts off the shower, shivering. _Bread_ , he thinks suddenly. _I was making bread_. His thoughts are disjointed and fuzzy, the pain having splintered them. Slowly, he beings the difficult journey back to the kitchen, his stump at least numbed slightly by the cold water. The storm has already come and passed, the occasional lightning bolt in the distance all that remains. He leans against the kitchen island for support as exhaustion tears at his bones. He pulls the tea towel off the bowl to reveal a dough that hasn’t even come close to doubling in size yet. He frowns, unsure. He must not have slept very long at all. He shivers again, water dripping onto the floor from his inflamed thigh.

 

A sudden knock at the door breaks his tangled train of thought. Confused, he turns toward the surprise sound, hands gripping the edge of the countertop as the cane slips from his damp fingers. He makes no move to answer the door; he has no intention of being seen like this, so weak and useless. A wave of self-revulsion washes over him as another knock splits the silent air of the cottage. His hands are slick with sweat, slipping off the edge of the island. He backs up against the counter, his leg trembling slightly with the effort to stay upright. He’s so very tired. He tries to steady himself by placing his hand against the seat of the stool in front of him, but misjudges his weight and sends both stools crashing into each other as he just barely manages to hold onto the countertop. A yelp escapes his lips as the stool bounces off his thigh on its way to the ground at the same moment as the door swings loudly open behind him.

 

He freezes, half crouched, his arms shaking with the effort to hold himself up, the pain in his thigh crescendoing around him. He knows it’s her without turning around. _Who else would it be?_ He thinks without pity. _There is no one left._ His ears are still ringing and the pain seems to have consumed his entire lower half. The water was a mistake, the pressure only exacerbating the protesting nerve endings. He exhales slowly, torn between the desire to send her far away from the pathetic chaos of his life and the intense longing for her to stay, to keep her close.

 

“Peeta?” she whispers behind him. He can tell she’s still standing in the doorway. Whatever brash impulse caused her to fling open the door has faded now. He hears the uncertainty in her voice. He longs to hold her tightly in his arms, feel the flutter of her heart beat tenderly against his chest. With all the effort he can muster, he pulls himself upright and tries to look like he intended to be standing here, legless and stranded, surrounded by fallen chairs.

 

“Hey, Katniss,” he says brightly. Too brightly. She frowns instantly at the false note he hits. He used to be so much better at this, at masking the hurt and decay, wrapping it up in light humor and the easygoing smile that used to come so easily. She stands there watching him, silent and unmoving. She carries a cloth bag over her shoulder; he can see the green tufts of herbs poking out the top. She looks uncertain.

 

He tries again, his knuckles turning white with the effort it costs him to stay standing. “Is that a snack for me in that bag?”

 

An unexpected smile turns the corners of her mouth up. He feels pleased with himself, a small wave of relief washing over them both. “You following the bunny rabbit diet, then?” she responds lightly, stepping further into the cottage and closing the door behind her. Small pieces of her dark hair have come loose from her braid in the wind. He imagines tucking them gently back, feeling the soft strands fall through his fingertips, the brush of his palm bumping lightly against the top of her ear.

 

“Well, of course,” he jokes, smiling in spite of everything, fearing the moment his clammy hand will slip from the counter, “That’s how I keep my beefy physique. I’ve got nothing but parsley to thank for my strapping muscles, you know.”

 

She laughs loudly, her cheeks slightly flushed, the joy of it all enough to filter all the pain and memory from his body, if only for an instant. He’d give anything to hear the sound again. She’s still grinning as she steps closer, but as the light above the kitchen brings him clearly into view, the smile slides immediately off her face, replaced with a deep frown. He longs to extend his hand, smooth the wrinkle that forms tenderly back off her forehead.

 

“What happened?” she exclaims, aghast. He frowns slightly at her horror, trying to ignore the climbing pain in his thigh.

 

“I only knocked over the chairs,” he says defensively. His hands grow whiter as he grips the countertop desperately. The cane lies mockingly out of reach.

 

“No – not the chairs – to your leg!” she cries, her voice the only sound in the room.

 

He pauses, considering. “It’s just – ah – just having a bit of a bad day, that’s all.”

 

“Peeta,” she says in a measured tone, staring up at him. The sound of his name in her mouth cuts through the pain to pierce his heart. “It’s all swollen and red! What’s going on?”

 

His hands tremble and the room sways before him, the defense he had ready quickly crumbling. “Could you, um, can you help me – I need to sit down – please –” He fears collapsing before her most.

 

Instantly, she is next to the counter, sliding her warm hands around him, hooking his arm up and over her shoulders. She feels impossibly soft next to him, almost nestled in the crook of his arm. He shivers. The moment doesn’t feel real, although he can’t imagine inventing such a pitiful scenario for his restless mind to cling to. He uses one last bit of strength to prevent himself from sinking fully into her side as she helps guide him to the couch. Collapsing onto it, all his strength is finally gone as he feels the color drain from his already pale face. Panting slightly, he forces his eyes open to track her standing above him, worry etched in every corner of her small face.

 

“It’s all right, Katniss,” he breathes, wincing despite his best efforts. “I’m fine, promise. Don’t worry about me.”

 

She exhales in clear frustration. “But I _am_ worrying about you,” she murmurs, bending over him, one eye critically examining the inflamed stump. “It’s all I do, apparently,” she huffs.

 

He tries to process this, but the pain and the exhaustion keep clouding his brain. He feels like he’s climbing through fog to force out every word. She’s pulling a wide-leaved herb out of her bag, one he doesn’t recognize, and popping the leaves whole into her mouth.

 

“Now who’s the rabbit?” he manages. She shoots him a look that could melt glass, and he laughs once before instantly regretting the pain that shoots up his side at the movement. Worry clouds her face again as she spits the ball of herb back into her palm.

 

“Oh, lovely, really delicious,” he whispers.

 

“Shut up, idiot,” she hisses, the corner of her mouth twitching slightly. “I’m helping you.” She presses the herbs gently against his scarred thigh, which begin work at once cooling the heat of his skin.

 

“Oh,” he breathes. “Oh, that _is_ nice.” The fear of revealing himself to her like this, the self-loathing he uses as an automatic defense against his broken body, fades as the pain in his thigh lessens. His eyes flicker closed as he enjoys the sensation.

 

“It’s not much,” she says, “It’s all I have with me. But I can bring you something better when I get back to the store.” She continues pressing the balled-up herbs against his inflamed skin, each touch of her finger shooting waves of electricity through his body. He shivers.

 

“You’re right,” he murmurs suddenly, the fog of his brain lifting temporarily, “I am an idiot.” He opens one eye to peer up at her as she wrinkles her freckled nose at him.

 

“I could’ve told you as much,” she banters back at him.

 

He opens the other eye to stare at her intently, so close to him. He can see the narrowness of her frame, the way her cheekbones seem to protrude out much more sharply from her face than they used to, the angle of her hips pressed lightly into the side of the couch. He remembers the white roses, blackened by the mud on the pavement in town, her rage and grief spiraling through the early morning. The desperate way she swims every night, cutting through the waves with a reckless kind of fury. He reaches up a hand to grab hers by the wrist, stopping her from placing more herbs on him. She frowns. He tries to ignore the endless shockwaves that deepen for every instant his skin remains pressed to hers.

 

“Katniss?” he asks with a sudden urgency. He fears he knows the answer to the question he has yet to ask, even though it’s impossible that it could be true. “Katniss, where is Prim?”

 

A cloud seems to pull across her face, shadows dulling her grey eyes, and she makes to pull away from him, but he keeps a tight hold of her thin wrist, refusing to let her go.

 

“Please, Peeta – I don’t –” she stammers, her voice cracking slightly. “Please.” She looks at him pleadingly, wild and trapped by his arm. Beyond the cottage walls, the wind picks up, creaking in the corners of the room.

 

She’s shaking her head but he continues, both desperate and fearful to hear this one unbearable truth. “I want you to tell me. I need to hear it from you, I won’t be able to tell what’s real from anyone else. Please.”

 

Her eyes begin to fill with tears as she continues to shake her head, pulling against his hand over her wrist. “I don’t  – I can’t –”

 

“Katniss,” he whispers, breaking for her, confusion and guilt tearing at his insides as her eyes shine with grief. He wants nothing more than to pull the pain from her heart and carry it neatly hidden inside what remains of his own ashen core.

 

“You already know,” she says desperately, her voice thin and cracking, “Don’t you?” And as the tears begin to spill over, flooding her cheeks, he reaches his arms up and pulls her without hesitation down to him, holding her tightly against his chest. Her thin shoulders shake against his palms, her face buried in his sweater, as he presses her to him. Outside, the porch light flickers in the wind, casting faint silhouettes across the living room floor. He can’t imagine ever letting her go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, that was a long break between chapters! My apologies... Where'd the time go?! Thanks all for your lovely words of encouragement <3 Hope you enjoyed! Comments & kudos much appreciated xx


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